


your body is a weapon!

by tkillamockingbird (Theboys)



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Football, Intersex, M/M, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29501619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/tkillamockingbird
Summary: steve rogers is enormous.bucky...is not.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 11
Kudos: 198





	your body is a weapon!

**Author's Note:**

> er, i think the tags make this look super dark but this is mostly the dregs of my muse producing (what i hope is) a semi-humorous offering. but the violence/abuse is brief and not between our favorite pair.

Steve Rogers is enormous.

It’s both the first and last thing that people remember about him. When he was fourteen he weighed a good 130 soaking wet and was sitting at 5’7. Oddly (or blessedly, however one chooses to think about it) he was one of the most popular kids in his year. 

Steve figures that’s because he wasn’t afraid to fight anyone no matter the size and he’d gotten really good at being quick when he needed to win.

Being feisty was his schtick. But right before the summer between freshman and sophomore year, he shot up to 6’1 overnight and subsequently ate his parents out of house and home. 

Joseph Rogers was a big man with a soft temperament, quite unlike Steve’s. He hated the Yankees religiously, watched the LA Dodgers out of a misplaced sense of loyalty upheld by Steve’s grandfather, and he was an avid fan of the Nets. But, more than almost anything, Joseph Rogers loved football.

He was a chronic Jets fan and the pain of that franchise never left him.

Steve says all this to say that he spent half of his growth-spurt summer in Sands Point, eating his grandmother’s (and her cook’s) food and generally being a nuisance along the Shore and around the Preserve.

He was never a leisurely sort of person but the Rogers’ had made a great deal of money in railroading way back and Steve thought that he deserved a little rest and relaxation, seeing as how Grandpa Hank was a hardass and did not believe in handouts.

Too bad Grandpa worked him to the bone, running drill after drill, route after route, even though the man was pushing 75 if he was a day.

So Steve’s art supplies kind of withered away in the foyer and his Grandma occasionally screamed shrilly from the porch that Grandpa should be careful not to kill Stevie.

Sometime between the shin splints and rhubarb pie, Steve shot up and bulked out, and when he came back to Park Slope Heather Tracy literally fainted at the sight of him.

Truly. Sam Wilson took a picture and posted it to Steve’s MySpace later that same day.

See, the thing is, Steve Rogers was used to attention.

What he wasn’t used to was being hot.

Coach Nyles had him on varsity tryouts the very next week. Everything Steve knew about football he learned from his family and from the labor-intensive Sunday, Monday, and Thursday Night Football sessions with his father.

He had a damn near eidetic memory and so when he’s asked to run a simple flat and then a slant, Steve doesn’t really have to see Coach’s face to know he’s in trouble.

Football practice is definitely at the same time as art club.

-

Ten Years Later

“You should have gone for quarterback,” Sam grumbles, tugging out his mouthguard to tuck it between the slats of his helmet.

Steve shrugs.

“They catch so much shit. You think I wanna be on ESPN every morning watching Skip bend over backwards to tell everyone that I’m not as good as I think I am?”

Sam snorts.

“They already talk about you enough. You’re Stephen A Smith’s favorite tight-end,” Sam jokes, hopping up and down to get some blood to his extremities. 

It’s fucking cold in Gillette, per usual, but Steve does his best work in the cold. It leaves little room for anything but essential thought.

“Rather everyone get off my dick,” Steve grumbles, and Sam throws his head back in a laugh.

“You got a ring your first year. You scored all four of the TDs in the first half and the only reason you didn’t score a fifth is because your big ass got twisted up with your defender and sprained your knee. You got Super Bowl MVP as a rookie. Get the fuck out of here.”

Steve claps Sam on the back hard enough that the other man chokes. Back in high school, after Steve grew, he and Sam were about the same height but then Steve caught about four more inches between then and freshman year at Alabama, and now he feels a little like the jolly green giant.

“I just love the game,” Steve says stupidly, and Sam rolls his eyes again. 

“You can love the game and love winning too. And don’t lie to me. I know you love winning. Every time you win you hunt for a new piece of ass like a goddamn bloodhound.”

Sam pauses to snort. “I just love the game,” he mimics, and Steve catches him in a headlock just as Coach hisses at them to be quiet.

“Coin toss,” Steve mutters.

Sam groans aloud at the results. “I hate when we defer,” he says, swinging his helmet on. “They always put me on Edelman.”

-

Steve’s not surprised when they win. The Chiefs are Super Bowl favorites and whatever bullshit he was trying to sell Sam, Steve knows his best friend is right.

He loves winning.

He’s got his shirt wrapped around his neck and he’s fielding congratulations from his friends when he steps out of the locker room to make a call.

He calls his father after every game, both of them just superstitious enough to believe that Steve’s career will fail if he doesn’t.

He’s wiping the sweat from his brow when he careens into something--or rather, someone.

The someone bounces off of him like a pebble against water and Steve hears a high-pitched squeal as the person hits the ground.

“Ah shit,” Steve says, slinging his shirt over one shoulder and crouching down so that he can better assist whoever it is.

Turns out that is the best mistake of Steve’s twenty-five years because the boy looking up at him is a doll-baby.

It’s pretty obvious to him that the boy is a carrier; he’s slight and hairless in all the right ways, from what Steve can see of him.

He’s got toned but slim legs and his hair is falling messily over one shoulder.

He’s in the tiniest skirt Steve has ever seen, tucked up almost to his waist and a long-sleeved crop in blue, red, and white.

“You’re a cheerleader,” Steve says dumbly, and the boy finally looks up and meets his eyes.

The eyes throw Steve even further; they’re the color of the sky just before a storm and are fringed with long, thick lashes. He’s got a rosebud of a mouth.

Steve wants to fuck the ever-living shit out of him. He’s so hard he’s lightheaded.

“No shit,” the boy says, his voice soft and sweet despite his sarcasm. 

“I love dressing like a slutty barbie when it’s 30 degrees or less out.” The boy tucks some of his hair behind one ear and squints up at Steve.

“You’re blocking the light. Help me up so I can get a good look at you,” the boy commands, and Steve’s dumbass reaches down and takes the boy around slender hips (Jesus. His hands  _ meet  _ in the middle for God’s sake) and simply  _ lifts him off of the ground and onto his feet. _

The boy doesn’t even come to his chin.

Steve has purposefully not spent a lot of time thinking about why he likes his partners small but now he’s got to face it head-one. He could absolutely ruin this little thing. Quite literally kill him. Just the thought of dominating that slight body has Steve well on the way to hard.

The boy tilts his head back as far as he can and pops his hands on his hips.

“You’re the big one. The tight-end,” the boy says, all that wavy hair resting carelessly against the tops of his shoulders.

“Well. They weren’t lying about that,” the boy says primly, and Steve can’t stifle his laugh.

“Do I pass inspection?” He says dryly, and the boy bites at that plush lower lip.

“Maybe if you hadn’t knocked me to the ground,” he says, and Steve raises an eyebrow.

“You walked into me, doll,” Steve says, and the tips of the boy’s ears flare bright pink.

Steve schools his face into nonchalance but he files the information away. This pretty boy likes to be called sweet things. Noted.

“I could have died! You’re the biggest target on your o-line. Your body is a weapon!”

Steve laughs harder this time, his iPhone obscured in his right hand.

“You have my sincerest apologies,” Steve promises, and the boy makes a trilling sound under his breath.

“I know you’re Steve Rogers.” The boy pauses, tugging at a lock of his hair. His legs are pink with cold and Steve thinks about how trim his waist was.

Christ.

“I’m James, but my friends call me Bucky.  _ You  _ can call me James until you’ve earned your apology,” he says, tugging on his little skirt so that the hem is no longer twisted to the side.

The boy--James--begins walking away, his small feet encased in nondescript white sneakers.

“Well, how do I earn it??” Steve asked, rendered stupid by the absolute peach of an ass on the boy. How the hell can he be so lean with a bubble like that?

James turns around and smiles crookedly, reminding Steve that he’d better hide his ogling a bit better.

“You’ve got a brain in that big old body of yours. Use it.”

Steve slumps against the wall to watch him go and almost forgets to call his father entirely. 

-

Steve is single-minded.

And as arrogant as it may be, he’s not been short of company since he hit his growth spurt, and even less so since he was drafted in the first round.

So, once he’s fucked himself free of postgame adrenaline, he calls Sam up and holds his breath in wait.

Sam answers on the third ring, hollering into the speaker above the noise of some afterparty Steve was too lazy to attend.

“Everybody!” Sam yells, “it’s Rogers!”

Steve can hear the house erupt in a collective yell, some of which belong solely to his teammates.

“What you need big man?” Sam says, and Steve pulls the phone away from his ear so he can think.

He’s got a slip of a woman passed out in his bed, probably covered in bruises, and all Steve can think about is one cheerleader with no filter.

“Does Kasey know any of the Patriots cheerleaders?”

Sam groans. 

“No. No man, absolutely not. I told you that fucking Kase was the worst mistake of my life cause I got to see her every day. I said to you in no uncertain terms that if you needed to fuck, you do  _ not  _ shit in your own house like I did. You  _ learn  _ from the mistakes of your brethren, Steve.”

Steve snorts under his breath. Sam is definitely drunk.

“The Pats aren’t even our house, Sammy. Look, does Kase know any or not?”

Sam groans.

“I don’t think so, man. Why? Which one you want?”

Steve grits his teeth.

“The little one,” he grinds out, and Sam guffaws.

“Obviously, man. You love ‘em little. But they’re all little. You’re gonna need to help me out.”

“The carrier.”

Sam hums. “They got a couple on the team but--” 

Sam pauses and then whistles, long and loud. “I know the one. About 5’3, pretty brown hair and ass that won’t quit?”

Steve grunts, his hand curling into a fist.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

Sam sighs languidly. “Well, then you better head over to the Grand. I’m looking at your boy right now.”

-

It’s not until Steve is behind the wheel that he remembers that he forgot to tell Sharon goodbye.

-

They let Steve cut the line because most people know Steve on sight by now.

He slips a few hundreds to the folks closest to the front of the line for the inconvenience and then he’s shouldering his big body through the door and into the seizure-inducing nightclub atmosphere.

Steve doesn’t mind clubs so long as he can sit at the bar or stand and drink, but now he’s got to try and find Sam in this crush so that Sam can show him where James is.

Sam is pretty tall too, so Steve is focused on looking for the familiar head of his best friend when he hears something like glass breaking to the left.

Steve’s following the source of commotion before he can think better of it and he turns the corner toward the much quieter hallway that leads to the bathrooms.

“Brock, please let go.” The voice is tremulous and Steve pauses for one second to better hear.

“You said you weren’t co-coming out. You lied,” the second voice slurs, which Steve recognizes as the third string back.

“Nat wants to meet this one tackle and she didn’t want to come alone,” the voice says, small and pained, and Steve realizes this is why he didn’t recognize it.

It’s James. But it doesn’t sound like the boy he met.

“Brock, ple-please. I can’t bruh--” his little voice breaks off and Steve pushes himself into line of sight so fast that he’s almost on top of the pair.

Brock has one hand around James’ throat and his feet are almost dangling off of the ground, black heels barely scraping the carpet.

Steve’s swinging before he considers his next move.

Brock’s nose explodes against his fist and Steve thinks of all the fights he got into as a kid and then later when he got bigger.

He got into football because he had a hard time controlling his anger.

This feels like those times.

Brock’s hands fly up to protect himself and he stumbles backward.

“What the fuck?!” He yells, slapping a hand over his wounded face.

“If I murder you in this fucking club they will cover it up,” Steve grits out, going back for another hit. This one connects to the side of Brock’s skull and the other man crashes to the ground with a groan.

Steve’s chest is heaving and he’s thinking about how James had two little hands scratching at Brock’s one and he’s pretty sure he’s going to cave Brock’s chest in.

“--teve!”

Steve hears, and it’s not the words but the voice behind it.

James is hiccuping through tears, white crop top hanging torn from one slim shoulder. He’s wearing high-waisted leather pants and he looks like he got all dolled up to have fun before this happened.

“I wanna go. I wanna get out of here.” His voice is small, button nose red. “Can you please take me out of here?”

“Christ. Fuck. Yeah. Of course I can. Of course.”

Steve steps closer to him and he can see clear over top of his head. He can also see the five little bruises around Bucky’s neck where Brock had held him so tightly.

Steve has the rush to kill Brock once more but James is shivering like a leaf and so he does the unthinkable and scoops him up so that James has no choice but to wrap his legs around Steve’s waist.

“C’mon,” Steve whispers and James slings his arms around Steve’s neck and buries his hot little face into Steve’s throat.

He’s sure the paps get good pictures but he doesn’t quite care.

-

James practically crawls into Steve’s lap in the car and refuses to get out on the passenger side until Steve comes to carry him.

Steve loves moving him around like nothing but he’s afraid James is in shock.

It’s not until Steve enters his bedroom, bed rumpled and Sharon thankfully cleared out, that James makes a sound.

“James? Sweetheart, talk to me.”

James mumbles something.

“Can’t hear you, doll,” Steve teases, and James raises his head.

“S’Bucky,” he says clearly. “I think you’ve earned it.”

Steve raises one brow and settles on the edge of his bed, Bucky still straddling his waist.

“Bucky,” he tries, tasting the name on his tongue. It’s more intimate than James.

“Thank you,” Bucky says, cheeks hot. “Brock was a mistake. I didn’t even sleep with him because he was--” Bucky waves his hands around “handsy,” he finishes lamely.

“Also,” Bucky says slowly, “I’m a carrier. Which is like, catnip to douchebags. I thought it might get better when I turned twenty but. Well.”

“I never would have guessed,” Steve says dryly, aiming for a laugh and Bucky does not disappoint.

“And you’re packing,” Bucky says softly, and when he looks up his doe eyes are big and wet in his face.

“Jesus,” Steve hisses as Bucky rocks his lithe body up and down where Steve’s getting hard.

“I came to that club to find you,” Bucky whispers, a mewl caught in his throat.

“The cheerleaders usually come to afterparties but I don’t. I wanted to see if you’d put me on my back and choke me full of your dick.”

Bucky says this last so innocently that Steve has to strangle a moan.

“You got a dirty fucking mouth, baby,” Steve bites out, rising to turn and slam Bucky down against his sheets.

Bucky looks like an angel there, caught in the moonlight and Steve wants to keep him. His personality is far bigger than his body.

Bucky’s still hanging out of his shirt and Steve rips it down the middle, causing Bucky to undergo a full body shudder.

“You can’t do shit like that,” Bucky says. “You’re so fucking huge. I always get into trouble because I like them so. Fucking. Big.”

Steve laughs at Bucky’s chatter, peeling pink feet out of heels and allowing Bucky to help him drag tight pants down his thighs.

Steve rips his own clothes off with little fanfare just so he can spend more time looking at the way Bucky’s tight little body looks spread against red sheets.

Bucky’s face flushes like maybe he’s not as self-assured as he seems and Steve knows it’s intimidating, the way he’s looming.

“Spread your legs for me, sweetheart,” Steve soothes, and Bucky does, hiking his legs up to his chest.

His small dick is as hard as it can be, a few inches long, but the real prize is the cunt nestled underneath, pink and shining with slick.

Steve snakes a hand down to the base of his dick and squeezes tight.

“I’m not gonna be able to stop thinking about you doing all those cheers with this juicy little pussy between your thighs,” Steve says sharply, and Bucky’s whole body trembles.

“I-In all your interviews you’re so  _ nice _ ,” Bucky whines, gently humping the air.

“But you’re not nice, are you?”

Steve grins, feral.

“No, baby. I’m not.”

-

Steve’s got Bucky chest down, that fat ass hiked as high as Steve can hold it. And what an ass it is. It jiggles violently as Steve fucks into his cunt, trembling with every thrust.

Bucky’s squealing, (and Steve cannot hide his delight at discovering Bucky squeals) and he makes these little punched-out sounds as Steve shoves him further and further up the bed.

“Tell me you like it,” Steve says, snaking one hand around Bucky’s chest to rest on his collarbone.

“You’re a good boy, right? Tell me.”

Bucky sobs. “I-I love it,” he says, the words trembling with Steve’s movements. “I want you to fuck me forever. God you have such a big dick,” he cries, and Steve moves his hands from Bucky’s hips so he can see the bruises he’s left behind.

“I want you to choke me,” Bucky cries, “I don’t want, don’t want his hands there.”

Steve’s thrusts become more violent, squelching in the hot air of his hotel room. Just the thought of Brock is enough to send Bucky skidding up the bed.

Steve doesn’t need to be told twice. He flexes his hands around Bucky’s slim throat and thinks about how easily he could kill this boy.

But then he just...doesn’t.

Bucky gasps for air when Steve lets go and Steve bites down on the nape of his neck, body completely covering Bucky’s smaller one.

“I’m gonna keep you. I’m gonna take you with me when we fly out tomorrow and I’m gonna keep you naked and stuck to my dick.”

Bucky makes a high whine and arches his back up further so that he’s pushing into Steve’s thrusts.

“Nobody’s ever gonna touch you again. Just me.” Steve groans as Bucky shudders and comes underneath him, wailing and then collapsing onto the sheets.

“That’s right, baby. This pussy is so fucking tight. God. Fuck.”

Bucky turns his head weakly, tear tracks on his face and hair curled by his ears.

He’s stunning.

“You gonna come in me?” He asks, his voice a soft lilt. “Put your baby in me?”

Steve’s hips stutter as he comes and Bucky’s gentle laughter feels like a gift.

-

Sam looks back and forth at Steve and the sleeping bundle he’s carrying in his arms.

Bucky can apparently sleep like the dead. He’ll be delighted to note when he wakes up that Steve always keeps his promises.

He deposits Bucky into his private cabin, tucked in underneath the sheets that Steve brings from home to help him sleep on long flights.

“You didn’t,” Sam says, plaintive.

“What?” Steve says innocently, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Is that--is that the fucking cheerleader?”

Steve claps Sam on the shoulder and drags him in for a hug.

“His name is Bucky. And you were right. He’s got a hell of an ass.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
